


keep me warm in your bloodstream

by allbridgesburn



Series: never break the chain [2]
Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV), The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canada AU, Depression, Eventual Romance, F/M, Healing, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 18:50:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15125708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allbridgesburn/pseuds/allbridgesburn
Summary: They orbit around each other, like two satellites. She senses his presence in the room even before she sees him; his hot gaze on her back, following her wherever she goes.Everything is different – her hair, her clothes, the lipstick on her lips and the baby in the stroller, but the gravity that seems to pull them together – it feels the same as before.[AU after 2x10]





	keep me warm in your bloodstream

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to [bury my love in the moondust](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15035828), but it can be read on its own, too.

Home.

She’s home.

They sit on the carpeted floor in Luke’s apartment, Holly dozing off contentedly against June’s chest. Luke’s showing Hannah how to play a game on the iPad – something she wasn’t allowed in Gilead, and doesn’t remember from before. She makes a gasp of delighted surprise every time they manage to score a point and the iPad vibrates in her hands.

Moira sits by June, their shoulders touching, and speaks as if they’re catching up after a long holiday; she tells her about the girl she’s dating and her asshole new neighbor and how good Tatiana Maslany is in that new show Moira’s watching. It’s only sometimes, something flashes in her eyes and she touches June’s hand, squeezes tightly for a few seconds, warm and reassuring and _there;_ _I’m here for you, always_ , and June smiles, her eyes feeling too dry, and squeezes back.

Luke orders in the shittiest garbage food, like McDonald’s or greasy Chinese take-out from a shady guy down the street – and June says she loves it, it’s been so long since she’s had anything like this, and asks for more, even though she can barely taste it.

They watch movies. Luke reads story after story to the children, modulating his voice, making Hannah laugh. June paints her nails. Cuts her hair. She laughs and smiles and sings while putting Holly to sleep and it’s like nothing bad has ever happened.

It was all just a dream.

 “I’m so happy,” she whispers into Hannah’s soft hair, “so very happy”.

 

-

 

Not long after Holly’s birth, she goes to the embassy to testify. She looks like hell and feels like it, too. She hopes it shows on the recording.

She talks briefly, emotionlessly, gives them the basic facts. It’s strange the way her voice doesn’t shake - or maybe it’s not strange at all, when you think about what happened in an analytical, impersonal way, as if none of it ever happened to you. She tells them about the Red Center, the Ceremony, her first Commander, and the Waterfords. Her voice wavers for the first time when she recounts the night before their escape, but she braves through it; bites the inside of her mouth until she tastes the metallic taste of blood and carries on. The women on the other side of the table cry openly, the sound of their sobs sometimes louder than June’s own voice.

“Do you guys need to take a break?” June asks after recounting the first Ceremony at the Waterfords, hoping her impatience isn’t too obvious. She needs to go back to Holly, who is probably giving Moira hell – so far she’s refused to leave June’s arms for longer than 10 minutes.

“We’re fine, if you are,” one of the women says clumsily, and then immediately apologizes, _of course you’re not fine, that was so insensitive_ , but June just waves her off.

“One last thing, Ms. Osborne,” they say as June rises to leave, at the end. “Nicholas Blaine. We were told at the hospital that you vouched for him, but we would like a confirmation. Is he someone to be trusted? According to my information, he’s been working for the regime. He did help you escape, however–”

June shakes her head sharply, feels something stirring in her chest, something like anger. “Listen, I owe this man my life. Mine and my daughters’. If it weren’t for him, all of it – all that I’ve just told you would have continued, and my baby would have been ripped away from me. He saved us, and that can never be repaid.” She takes a deep breath. Collects herself. “Nick is a good man. Whatever he’s done – whatever influence he’s had, he used that to help us. I – I don’t know much, but I know there’s no one I trust more than him.”

The thought of him is like a stab to the chest. She leaves the room, but the memory hangs heavy in her mind, of the way she acted the last time she saw him. The way she’s acting now. She wonders if he can ever forgive her.

 

-

 

The nights are made of nightmares.  

Hannah has trouble sleeping; on the verge between wakefulness and sleep she keeps calling for Theresa – her Martha – or her Gilead parents and no matter how patiently Luke explains to her that her mommy and daddy are back with her, that they will never leave her again, she won’t stop. June tries to hold her, early on, but that means setting Holly down and Holly starts crying every time she’s parted from June. Hannah gets more agitated when the baby cries; she covers her ears and buries her face in the pillow; in her Gilead house there were no crying infants and it was Hannah who everyone made adjustments for. What’s happening now is _wrong_. So it’s Luke who lies in bed with Hannah, coaxing her to sleep, telling her stories and making promises she doesn’t want to hear.

On good nights, June manages two hours of sleep.

She wakes up suddenly, in a panic, steely fingers of terror tightening around her throat. In the darkness, the walls seem to be closing in. Holly’s weight on her chest feels like a stone, dragging her down, down underwater and June can’t catch her breath; she gasps for air but all that seems to enter her lungs is fire, burning its way through her insides. It hurts, everywhere, and she’s choking on nothing, they will walk through that door and –

Luke takes Holly away from her and puts his arms around June, hands pressing soothing circles into her back. She curls her fingers into his t-shirt, digs her nails into his back as her breathing slows. She looks over his shoulder at the door. No one enters. No one ever will.

She calms herself down, but then Luke’s body starts to shake in her arms, and he sobs, so wretchedly, as if he was the one who had been tortured, he who had been raped. She doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know why this display of emotion unnerves her so much, and is glad when Holly wakes up and starts crying for her.

She feeds her and then walks around the room until the baby falls asleep. She lies back down next to Luke, sees the dried tear-tracks on his cheeks.

She doesn’t sleep.

 

-

 

Sometimes the nightmares bleed out into the light of day.

Their perfect, normal day. Spent watching The Little Mermaid on TV. Eating sweets.

Moira comes from work bearing gifts – a Sex and The City DVD set and a box of macarons fresh from the French Patisserie downtown. 

June bites into the macaron, and the world reverts. She’s back at the Putnams, and Serena feeds her like a dog, the wives humming _how obedient Offred is, how well-trained_ , then calling her a whore as she turns away. June barely makes it to the bathroom before she throws up, the previously sweet cake leaving an acidic taste in her mouth.

She doesn’t realize that Moira rushed in behind her.

“June,” she says, reaching out. “What can I do?”

June stares at the mirror. She looks like someone who’s been deathly ill for weeks – bloodshot eyes shadowed with dark circles, ashen skin, bitten lips. She’s wan and hollow and her hands shake, constantly. The walls keep closing in. The closed doors taunt her.

“I need to get out,” she says, suddenly brimming with urgency, “Moira, I need to get out of here before I suffocate.”

Moira nods – calm, focused. “Okay. Sure. You can come help at the embassy. We always ask for volunteers, anyway, and you won’t be on your own.”

June breathes deeply, wipes the sweat from her face. “Thank you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before? I thought you were happy.”

“I thought I was.” June looks away. She feels so tired, like her bones might turn to dust any moment now. “And then, when I realized I wasn’t, I just couldn’t – Luke was so happy we were back together. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. Even now–”

“June.” Moira grabs her by the shoulders, makes June look at her, shakes her lightly. “He wasn’t there. He doesn’t know how it was. How it feels, now. You have to do what you feel is right for you _now_ , okay? Do you understand? He may love you, but he won’t fix your problems. Only you – you have to fix yourself. And if it feels like you have to get away? That’s what you gotta do.”

June leans forward and wraps her arms around Moira, tears welling in her eyes.

“When did you get so wise?”

“My therapist blew my fucking mind. For real, I mean it. I can tell Luke the same, if he starts with this shit. Though I thought I managed to reform him when we were living together.”

“I still can’t believe this happened in the same universe I’m living in now,” June says, pressing her face into the crook of Moira’s shoulder.

“Yeah. Haunts my nightmares, too.” She holds her tighter.

 

-

 

The embassy buzzes with life. People come and go; new pictures get pinned to the memory wall, more names of missing loved ones passed on the forms.

June gets assigned to segregate clothes – they deem her still too sensitive to interact with refugees, and too weak to take on anything more taxing. But she’s grateful for what she’s given, the freedom of being unseen in the storage, the quiet solitude she didn’t realize she was missing.

She wanders the corridors during her breaks. Traces the pictures with her fingers, looks for familiar faces. Wishes she could see someone she knows, and have some good news to share. Find their families and let them know that the one they’re missing, the one they love is still alive, and to not give up hope.

The familiar face she encounters doesn’t fit into this fantasy.

When Nick sees her, she almost thinks he will turn away. He sways on his feet, but then continues towards her, and her heart suddenly starts beating way too loudly in the vicinity of her throat.

He looks so strange, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans - she’s never seen him out of black. His hair growing too long. He walks stiffly, favoring his right side. She wonders if his wound is healing well. If he’s found anyone he’d known Before.

“Hi,” he says, his face guarded, like he’s still careful not to give anything away, like there’s still someone watching. But his eyes scan her face, register the shadows behind her makeup, the cracking edges. He was always too good at observing things.

“Hi,” she smiles. She searches for something to say, but she can’t focus over the pounding of blood in her ears. The things she should say are stuck in her throat. How, when she wanted to see him at the hospital, they told her he wasn’t accepting any visitors. How she wishes she’d let him see his daughter for more than 10 minutes. How she’s sorry for pretending he meant nothing to her, just so she could go back to her picture-perfect life once her husband arrived.

She doesn’t mention any of it.

“How are you feeling?” She looks at his side – remembers the blood, so much blood, all over him, dripping on the snow when they pulled him out of the car – but there’s not even a hint of a bandage underneath his too-big shirt.

He shifts on his feet. “Getting better. The physical therapist is kicking my ass, but I’m getting better. All healing nicely.” The muscle in his jaw ticks. “And how are you? How’s Holly?”

“She’s so, so good,” she says in a rush, cheeks immediately heating in shame, “healthy and strong. Amazing, really.”

Nick’s eyes soften. “And what about you?”

He knows, she thinks. He sees her. He can see her coming apart at the seams.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” she asks instead.

“Snitching.” He tries to smile at her quizzical look. “I’m giving everything away. Names, places, crimes. Seems I learnt a lot, hanging in the background. The resistance needs all the help they can get, and really it’s the least I can do.”

June doesn’t realize when she started smiling, but now she doesn’t seem to be able to stop. “That’s great, Nick.” Pride wells up in her.

They call him back inside before she manages to say more.

 

-

 

The next day, she brings Holly to work.

The reason for that is simple – Luke can’t handle her, and she’s really still too small to be away from June.

The other reason? There’s no other reason.

She sees Nick during her break; he’s in the middle of a conversation when she approaches, which is completely forgotten once he sees her with the stroller. He looks at her and then back at the stroller, confusion mixed with hope that makes her feel like the shittiest person on Earth.

“Sit down,” she tells him, and lifts Holly from the stroller. She sits next to Nick and instructs him how to hold his arms. “Just like I’m doing right now. It’s easy, you’ll see. Just remember to hold her head up.”

Nick shifts anxiously next to her, unable to take his eyes off Holly who is currently curling her fingers into little fists. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he says.

“It’s just a matter of practice. Come on.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to hurt her.”

June looks at him, meets his gaze with surprising sincerity. “I know you would never hurt her, Nick.”

She moves the baby into his waiting arms, and holds her breath. This is the moment when Holly usually starts screaming in protest of leaving June, and everyone must make a hasty retreat and return her to her mother. Nick sits still, seemingly afraid to breathe, while Holly opens her little mouth. And then she yawns widely, and her paper-thin little eyelids close.

She falls asleep.

 

-

 

It becomes a routine then – out of convenience or to soothe June’s screaming conscience, it doesn’t matter – that she comes to the embassy with Holly in tow. She does her work, meets up with Moira for coffee when the other woman is not in the field, and then – she seeks out Nick.

It never takes long. They orbit around each other, like two satellites. She senses his presence in the room even before she sees him; his hot gaze on her back, following her wherever she goes.

Everything is different – her hair, her clothes, the lipstick on her lips and the baby in the stroller, but the gravity that seems to pull them together – it feels the same as before.

She doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t question it. They’re helping each other out – she’s catching a break when Nick takes care of Holly, and he – he gets to be with his daughter.

She watches him carry Holly around, pointing at pictures of cartoon tigers and bears and butterflies hanging off the walls in the kids’ room. Watches him tickle her and make her coo and smile in his arms. Watches him soothe her when she cries.

One thought she never allows herself to entertain is this: _you could have had this_. And there’s more where that comes from, and it goes like this: _you could have had this man with you, every day, and he would love your baby the way it deserves to be loved, and maybe you would feel safe enough not to constantly look at doors and you would sleep through the night, and not wake up suffocating and feeling like you’re going to d_ –

But no, she doesn’t ever think that.

 

-

 

She walks with Moira in the park, arms looped together for warmth.

It’s still cold outside, February freezing their asses off, but June loves the vast, open space, the air, that feels different than it did in Gilead. Maybe it’s the pollution. Or the food stands around every corner.

It feels like salvation.

She doesn’t ask about the Jezebels. Or about Moira’s escape. The knowledge still feels too raw, somehow, and Moira doesn’t offer anything on her own. She doesn’t ask June, either, and June doesn’t say what her act of defiance did to the Red Center girls, doesn’t mention her failed escape attempt. Some things belong in the dark.

“Pizza?” she asks cheerfully, shadows under her eyes hidden under layers of foundation and concealer, her hands trembling inside her gloves.

“Hell yes, I’m starving.”

They warm themselves in an Italian restaurant. June digs into the pizza greedily, the warm cheese so good it makes her toes curl.

“So what’s your deal with that guy?” Moira asks.

June stills. “What guy?”

Moira lets out a sharp laugh. “Cut the bullshit, you know who I’m talking about. Dark, broody, walking around with your kid all the time like he’s your unpaid nanny? Or _do_ you pay him for it?”

“He’s just a friend,” June says, not looking her in the eye.

“I’m your friend, too, and you don’t see me doing that. It’s weird. Spill.”

Moira leans back, props her shoulders on the table. There is a flicker of amusement in her eyes like she’s expecting a good joke. But June is tired. So tired of keeping secrets.

“You really wanna hear it? Okay then. Waterford isn’t Holly’s father. Nick is.”

She wasn’t expecting the shock on Moira’s face. The outrage. “The fuck?!” She looks at June as if she’s just slapped her.

“Don’t look at me like that,” June says, harsher than she expected. “Luke wasn’t there. I didn’t even know if I would make it out of there alive. And I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you guys to treat Nick like–”

“So instead you let us all get chummy with a fucking rapist? How could you, June?” People look at them, aggravated. Moira’s voice is close to a scream.

It takes a moment for June to register her meaning. She blanches. “No. God, no. He didn’t. He never–” She sighs. Rubs her eyes with the backs of her hands. “I slept with him because I wanted to. I _needed_ to. He was the only thing keeping me sane.”

Moira stares at her. It unnerves June, the look that seems to pierce her to her core. Finally, she says, “we should take the rest to go.” Downs the rest of her beer. Just like that, the topic of Nick is forgotten.

They’ve gone through hell together, and they survived.

(Nothing else matters.)

 

-

 

A chair, a bed, a bedside table, some shitty lamp on the bedside table with a broken shade, she chants in her mind as she forces herself to ride out the panic attack. A crib. A baby. A man, holding a baby.

The pain in her chest recedes, but she’s still shaking. Sweat drips down her face. She feels too hot.

“I need air,” she says, getting out of bed in a rush. Luke looks at her in bewilderment, arms full of Holly who’s somehow, blessedly, still asleep. “I need air,” June repeats, dressing herself without care, “I need to get out.”

She walks down the street, the chilly night air cooling her down. The city is buzzing with life. She passes groups of drunk, laughing people, taxis driving from club to club. It’s Friday night.

June finds herself in a pub; shabby enough not to be full yet, but successful enough to have a live band, playing a dreadful playlist of 80s hits. She sits at a table close to the door, sipping on a virgin margarita, which is an absolute abomination and a disgrace to the name. She wishes she weren’t still nursing Holly and could get blackout drunk, end in a ditch somewhere and forget who she is.

Nick arrives maybe 20 minutes later. He slides into the seat opposite her, beer in hand.

“I’m glad you came,” she says. She surprised herself when she called him. He surprised her more by actually coming.

“It’s barely after midnight. What else do you think I have to do?” His lips twitch upwards. Oh, she has some ideas, but each of them makes her mood even sourer. His face sobers. “Wanna talk about it?”

Does she? She’d rather eat dirt. But then, why else did she call him?

She sighs. “I can’t sleep. The nightmares just… won’t stop. I think I’m losing my mind from lack of sleep.” She says it all in a rush, and then closes her mouth with a snap. He doesn’t need to hear this. But there she went, with her mouth again.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Earnest. Again, like he _knows_.

“Don’t be.”

He looks at her, with that intense gaze of his that never fails to make her heart beat faster. She curls her fingers into the sleeves of her sweater. She feels ugly. She just got out of bed. She probably picked a blouse with baby puke all over it.

“One day it’s gonna be over. Just like that, gone, forgotten. You’re gonna sleep through the whole night and wake up rested and well.”

She snorts. “How would you know that?”

“I don’t.” He smiles, softly. She likes his smile so much. “But we can hope. What else is there to do?”

“You’d make a shitty therapist, Nick,” she says, feeling lighter, somehow.

“You get to be thankful I’m not one, then.”

June finishes her drink, which against all Drink Rules, didn’t get better at the end of it.

“You know,” Nick says, drumming his fingers on the table, “Between your testimony and the details I gave them, the Waterfords are gonna be locked up for life.”

June stiffens. “If they catch them.”

“ _When_ they catch them. Did you hear about the sanctions? They are going down, slowly but surely.”

“I wish I could do more to help,” June says. She extends her hand and covers Nick’s own, stilling his restless fingers. The contact seems to send electric shocks down her arm. She pulls away, as if singed.

He clears his throat. “I’m giving them Pryce now. His secret missions. His church boys. I don’t know everything, but it sure would be enough to convict him. The old man is already burning in hell, but I can at least make sure people remember he was the one responsible for this shitshow.”

“Do you ever wish you were the one who finished him?” she asks. She wishes that about the Waterfords, all the time.

Something in Nick’s face changes and it feels like the air between them stills. He takes a swig of his beer. “There’s been too much killing already,” he murmurs. She barely hears him.

The first notes of _Dancing Queen_ fill her ears, and June lets out a choking laugh. There are girls in bachelorette tiaras, dancing in the middle of the pub, starting to yell the lyrics, dripping cosmos in their hands. The sight guts her suddenly, and the feeling of wretchedness seizes her like a vise.

Nick’s hand covers hers, and he’s leaning over the table to get closer to her. June wipes her eyes. “I just remembered – I promised Janine we would go dancing. We would all go – Janine and Moira and Alma, and we’d dance the whole night away and get trashed and that’s just never going to happen. Because I left them there.”

“But you gave her hope,” he says, his fingers intertwining with hers, “and that’s more important than anything else.”

June shakes her head. Hope won’t give Janine her baby back. Hope won’t stop the Commanders from hurting her. From hurting all of them. She wishes she weren’t so fucking _useless_ now.

Suddenly Nick’s getting to his feet and pulling her up with him. He’s still holding her hand.

“Come on. We’re going dancing.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Janine would–”

“Don’t give me that Janine-would-want-me-to-dance bullshit, Nick—”

“Would she rather see you sulk instead of actually making use of your freedom?”

June grits her teeth. “It’s shitty 80s music.”

“It’s _music_ ,” he says pointedly, and well, she can’t argue with that; music used to be a privilege, reserved for the Commanders’ whore house and the fucking creepy music box Serena gave her and – oh, fuck it. She’s gonna dance to a-Ha if it kills her.

Nick leads her to the dancefloor, which is already considerably crowded. June watches the people around her, jumping around in a way that somehow feels natural even though some of them must be tone deaf and/or high. She hears the music, feels it thrum against her skin, but all she can do is stand motionless. She can’t dance. She doesn’t seem to remember _how_.

Nick tugs at her hand, pulls her closer. He moves to the music, an awkward spin of limbs that seem to be controlled by someone who’s never fully grasped the concept of dancing. He twists his arms in something that could have been a snake move. June bursts out laughing.

He twirls her and the whole room spins, but then she’s back against his chest, solid and safe. They don’t let go of each other, even when the music changes. She starts swaying softly, coaxing her body to remember. She feels exposed, shameless, if she closes her eyes she could probably see Aunt Lydia with her cattle prod, berating her for disrespecting herself. But she keeps her eyes open. No one is staring. No one except for Nick, who’s right there, in front of her, holding her hand, and shielding her from anything that could hurt her.

How do you dance in a nightclub, Aunt Lydia?

Just slut it up.

She rocks her hips, dips her head back. The movement warms her skin and she feels herself relax, lets herself get lost in the music. Nick spins her again, and then rests his hands on her hips, burning hot through the fabric of her jeans. She leans against him, their breaths mingling. He smells like cigarettes, a hint of some spicy shower gel and sweat, and it brings her back to the garage apartment and Boston Globe and God, she wants him, so much it scares her.

They dance, and dance, and the world is just a mix of colors and sounds, and time ceases to exist.

The band says their goodbyes with _Don’t dream it’s over_. June wraps her arms around Nick’s neck, buries her face in the crook of his shoulder. They sway softly with the music, his hands warm around her. She closes her eyes. He feels like home, and safety. She doesn’t want to let go.

He presses his lips to the crown of her head. She almost misses it, the touch so soft, but it’s enough for her chest to constrict. She shouldn’t be doing this to him. He doesn’t deserve this mess.

He waits with her for the uber that takes her back home.

She doesn’t kiss him goodbye.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to have one more chapter. (Well, maybe more than one. Who knows. They're really taking their time getting together, that's for sure.)


End file.
